


Cold feet

by IanMuyrray



Series: Fersali [7]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gotham's Writing Workshop, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 03:52:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14762084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanMuyrray/pseuds/IanMuyrray
Summary: Marsali and Fergus recover from a fight that threatens their relationship, just before their wedding.





	Cold feet

**Author's Note:**

> for gotham's writing workshop: so what?  
>   
>  _So what_ can mean many things, depending on varying degrees of circumstances and inflection. my interpretation is not a _so what_ that means _who cares_ ; instead, I am reaching for a _so what_ that means _what now_ or _where do we go from here_. my _so what_ does not have an obvious presence; instead, it is implied. see if you can catch it.

Marsali’s phone chimed from the bedside table. She slowly opened her eyes and reached out across the mattress, feeling the bunched cotton sheets from where Fergus had slept. Morning light fell through the blinds and the room was soundless and still, contrasting the sounds of the city outside.

 

She rolled over with a groan to check the phone. Her lips twitched into a bittersweet smile as she pulled down the notification. Thirty days until the wedding. The familiar giddiness was still there, but it was tempered now by a new heaviness.

 

She set about her day, focusing on the mundane and ticking off the requirements of work and responsibility. Routine brought its small comforts, and she found herself sketching silly doodles into the corner of her desk calendar: _Marsali ~~MacKimmie~~ Fraser_.

 

It wasn’t until the day’s end that she began to feel that weight settle back inside her chest. As her footsteps echoed off the walls of the stairwell, she felt a reluctance straining against her body with each step closer to home.

 

Marsali hesitated outside the flat she shared with Fergus, staring at the brass number 12 adorning the closed door. Her keys dangled from her hands.

 

Their relationship had once been a reliable lightning rod, able to withstand shock after shock. The most recent bolt, though, had been different, a stronger voltage. They drifted around each other now, singed, frightened, powdered with soot.

 

Whatever may come, whatever they must do, they would support each other. When she made the decision to get a college education to pursue her dream of being a journalist, she had assumed he had her back.

 

And he did, up until he saw the size of the student loan she would need, calculated out how long to pay it off, and saw the mountain of compound interest. She hadn’t accounted for his misgivings about financial risks.

_Why aren’t you thinking about our future, Marsali?_

_I am! That’s why I’m going to school._

_We’ll be in debt our entire lives, for a pipe dream! It’s not worth it! What about wanting to own a home and providing for our children? We’re hardly able to pay our bills as is._

_I want this, Fergus. For myself. And for you.  I’ll make more money in the long run if I go to school. It’s an investment, can ye not see that?_

_You don’t need school. Look at me! I’m doing ok, aren’t I? Just get a different job if you’re not happy at work!_

_This isn’t about you. It’s about doing what I need to do. And if ye make me choose between you and school, Fergus, I choose school. You should ken me well enough to know that._

_On your list of priorities, then, where am I, Marsali? You’re always number one to me. Does this mean you love me less than I love you?_

 

She squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying to sweep away the cruel threats exchanged under the strain of an uncertain future and looming wedding vows.

 

“It’s just cold feet,” Claire, Fergus’ adopted mother, had said when Marsali turned to her for advice, “Cold feet might mean something, but most times it means nothing. He’s scared. You’re scared. Find a way back to each other, you’ll be alright.”

 

Marsali hoped Claire was right, but she and Fergus had hardly spoken to or touched each other since that day. They each kept to their own space, skirting around the peripheral of their flat like a pair of skittish, territorial cats. They had exchanged fewer words than the basic— “heading to the store,” “heading to work,” “I’ll be back by seven”—only phrases that recorded their comings and goings. 

 

Once, she had asked Fergus if he had eaten, and he grunted at her, walking away. They were rapidly slipping away from each other, becoming strangers. There had been no kisses, no caresses, no laughter, no questions about each other’s day, no comforting, idle touches. They were in a terrifying free fall.

 

She was very lonely, and she was very scared.

 

Marsali loved Fergus. Perhaps she could not come up with a lyrical metaphor to express her feeling like Pablo Neruda or Gabriel García Márquez might, but she loved him. It was as simple and as profound as that.

 

And because she loved him, she told herself, she could face him tonight.

 

Keychains jingling, she inserted her key into the lock and opened the door. Fergus was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables on their plastic cutting board.

 

“Hey,” he said, not looking up from his task. It was an acknowledgement of her presence, nothing more.

 

“Hi.” Cautious, Marsali approached. She placed a light hand on his shoulder, tracing his shoulder blade. She leaned in for a peck of greeting.

 

He shrank away from her touch, using the excuse of dumping the chopped veggies into the sauté pan to avoid her. The pan erupted into a hot fit of sizzles and steam.

 

Marsali gripped the counter, steadying herself as she swayed.

 

Watching him now as he prepared dinner, stirring the sizzling mess with a wooden spoon, she was seized with longing.

 

She missed the feeling of intimacy with him. She hated showering alone, she hated dressing with the door closed, she hated the wintry canyon that gaped their bodies on the mattress at night. She missed sex, too— that holy meeting place that made all other intimacy seem infinite.

 

“Dove,” she murmured, deciding to retry their welcome, feeling for the heartstring that connected them.

 

He looked up, his dark eyes searching, responding, perhaps unconsciously, to something in her voice.

 

Her chest was a bee hive, buzzing with shallow breaths and quick heartbeats. God, he was handsome. Slowly, she opened her arms. “Would ye come here a minute?”

 

He frowned but set the steaming pan on an unused burner to cool, accepting the offer of a hug.

 

Her hands kneaded deep into his back, and she felt the knotted muscles unravel in response. She pressed her face to his chest and a relieved tear escaped, which she rubbed away into his shirt. The fading cologne from his morning routine mingled with the olive oil and onions of dinner.

 

Neither moved, stunned by the intensity of their first contact in several days, mixed with exhaustion from fighting and regret.

 

Then, slowly, Marsali’s hands fluttered down to the hem of his shirt. She felt him shiver, then he breathed a kiss into her neck and hastily pulled away, leaving her alone.

  

* * *

 

 

“Marsali?”

 

She woke, her name a magic charm in his French accent. He was lying on his stomach next to her in bed, a black shape against the dark blue of night. She felt a lock of her hair move as he rolled it through his fingers.

 

Sensing a ceasefire, Marsali barely whispered her response. “Fergus?”

 

His eyes shone, reflecting light from an unknown source. As if unable to stop himself, he leaned over and kissed her, lightly, barely touching. Perhaps he had meant it only as a small gesture, but she recognized his caution as her own, and read what he held in restraint. Here it was—a chance to recalibrate. Weary of the distance between them, she reached up and crushed his mouth to hers, taking his bottom lip in her teeth.

 

He roused to her as she had hoped—as she knew he would—rolling over her and pinning her to the bed with his body. He was slender, but he was solid, warm, soft. He had been lonely, too, she realized, feeling him pressed between her thighs. They broke apart only to remove each other’s shirts, humming with agreement and appreciation and belonging. Coming together again, their breath alternated hot and cold, hands searching slow, catching signals that sound in the dark; skin soft, warm, and malleable under exploratory touches.

 

His hand slid beneath the waistband of her shorts, his fingers searching, stroking her with a delicate, catlike softness. His other hand tangled in her hair, and he hovered above her, watching, brushing his lips against hers in occasional acknowledgement of her responsive, staggered breaths.

 

She gasped as his finger entered her, and he responded with a soft smile. She vibrated against his palm, rocking her hips, cupping his face in her hands and pulling him down to her.

 

Behind her eyelids, consciousness receded, fragmented, distorted itself. She had been desperate for him —his attention, his friendship, his affection—and orgasm lingered at her edges. Unwilling to give up the gambit so soon, she pushed him off of her, separating with a deep, purposeful breath. She would go with him or not at all. Divining her intention, he slipped down his bottoms as she wiggled out of hers.

 

He lay at length upon her, holding her thigh open against the mattress with his hand spread wide, his fingers pressing into the flesh. He gazed down at her, eyelids heavy with lust. He waited.

 

“What?” she asked, squirming a bit with impatience.

 

He brushed hair back from her face. “I love you,” he breathed. Then, so tenderly, her heart upended itself rendering her speechless, “And I’m sorry.”

 

Her palms drifted down his back, fingertips counting the notches of his spine, and a finger came to rest in the cleft between his buttocks. She urged him forward, bringing her legs up, opening herself to him.

 

With a groan, in he slid, silk against silk. They were still for a moment, reacquainting themselves in the feeling of being joined. Neither of them breathed, or moved. Then they rocked, slowly, quietly, gently, clinging to each other.

 

He reached up and threaded his fingers through her hair. She leaned forward, bit his shoulder, grazed his neck with her teeth. Her fingers kneaded his hips and shoulders, grasping at as much of him as she could, losing track of the pace he had set.

 

He collapsed against her chest with a choked cry, his body thrumming, calling hers with it. She responded to him as she had hoped—as she knew she would—careening into a blissful haze of spilled honey and butterflies.

 

Catching his breath, Fergus rolled off of her and pressed their foreheads together, smiling. 

 

“You look ridiculous, _mon coeur._ ”

 

“Excuse me?” She tried to jerk away, but he held her close.

 

He chuckled, kissed her, then shifted onto his back.

 

She reached out to grab his hand, beginning to trace circles around his knuckles. “Fergus?”

 

“Marsali?”

 

“I’m excited to marry you.”

 

“Hm. Well, that’s good, because I’m excited to marry you, too.”

 

She interlaced his fingers with hers.

 

“Fergus?”

 

“ _Marsali_?”

 

“I love you.” She kissed his hand. “And I’m sorry.”

 

 


End file.
